Employee of the Month
by Les Varioufs
Summary: No money. No job. Or at least, not one to speak of. And, as always, a Baldrick. It seems as though Blackadder has hit rock bottom yet again...
1. Employee of the Month

**Author's Note:** I know I promised a sequel to "Strange New World", and believe me, it is coming along nicely (I have at least five long chapters done, at the moment), but I just needed a bit of a break from that universe for a bit, since I've been writing, reading and basically breathing it for months...so this story is just to keep my brain inspired. That, and it was also begging to be written.

I haven't written any Blackadder before, so please be kind. I have, however, been sat staring at my computer screen watching episodes for so long that even Derren Brown could not un-hypnotise me, so hopefully the characters are written properly :p Let me know what you think!

**1. Employee of the Month.**

Edmund winced (he would never give in to the indignity of jumping into the air in shock, no matter who was in his company) and resisted the very real urge to growl. That made the seventh trumpeting noise in the last two minutes. It was like an orchestra in here… and a very bad one at that. Perhaps one with a deaf conductor who was falling asleep and simply flailing at the players.

He glanced to his left and immediately wished he hadn't. Baldrick was crouched on the floor next to him, blowing his nose into a tissue that had seen so much action it was practically dripping snot onto the floor. He rolled his eyes and turned reluctantly back to stocking the milk.

They really should give the employees gloves; stocking fridges all day really did get on his nerves. Quite literally.

_Paaaarp_!

Edmund shoved the carton of milk to the back of the fridge with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary and gritted his teeth. He wouldn't talk to the idiot, he wouldn't talk to the idiot, he wouldn't –

"Ah, ah, ahhhhhh…"

There was a slight pause, and Edmund relaxed slightly.

"AH CHOO!"

_Right, that does it_, he thought, putting the carton of milk he had been about to stack back into the trolley. "For Heaven's sake, Baldrick, what's wrong with you? You sound like an elephant who just found out his family was killed by a pack of rabid, half mad lions and decided to portray its woes through the particularly bad use of bagpipes!"

Baldrick sniffed and looked at him with his standard vacant expression. "It's just a cold, Mr B. Seems to happen to me all the time this time of year."

"Yes, well, that doesn't really surprise me, Baldrick. You see, most humans have evolved to have at least the foresight to wear a jumper when the weather starts freezing… but not you, obviously. You're a scientific anomaly. You're just the type of backward, uncivilised, poor example of the human gene pool who would, through sheer stupidity alone, manage to get pneumonia in July…even if you _are_ as hairy as a mammoth and consume enough vitamin C to turn yourself permanently into a carrot."

"My mother says it's very healthy, the amount of carrots I eat," Baldrick countered proudly, almost putting the milk in upside down before he realised at the last minute and righted it.

"Not when you steal them from people's baskets, it isn't."

"Well, they don't notice, do they?"

"And a good thing too," Edmund replied maliciously. "One look at the state of your filthy hands and they'd think the plague had risen again."

Baldrick didn't seem to hear him, however, and instead got up to put his now soggy tissue in a bin by the entrance of the supermarket. Edmund quietly and resentfully went back to stacking shelves, glaring at businessmen in suits who strolled past, barely even deigning to give him a glance. Oh, he could have been one of them…

_Paaaarp_! A muffled, patting noise followed and Edmund warily turned around, knowing that he should just leave well enough alone and yet curious to see what the idiot was doing now. He almost banged his head repeatedly on the fridge next to him when he saw the man frisking himself for a tissue, his other hand held to his dripping nose.

…Surely he didn't just blow his nose into his hands…

He watched for a few more seconds, praying that the situation would right itself and that he wouldn't have to step in yet again, but Baldrick was becoming slightly frantic now, as he finished frisking himself and glanced around the shop. Only when Edmund saw him eying up a very expensive and low lying dress nearby did he finally intervene.

"For God's sake, Baldrick, you've got snot all over your apron. Here, take this," he held out a tissue. "I don't want the customers looking at you and thinking halloween's come early. The amount of green on you – you'd put the loch ness monster to shame!"

Baldrick wiped his nose and hands on the proffered tissue, though thankfully after taking it first. Considering who he was dealing with, that was an unexpected show of intelligence. "I saw it, once."

"Oh, _God_, here we go again…"

"She was in my bathtub," Baldrick continued blithely. "Floating on top of the water, green as that broccoli fruit," he said, pointing at a broccoli in a passing customer's basket.

"Vegetable, Baldrick. It's a _vegetable_."

"What is? The loch ness monster?"

Edmund rolled his eyes. "No, your brain, if indeed it does exist. Now get back to work. This supermarket won't stock itself, you know!"

"Right you are, Mr B."

"Although I bloody well wish it would," Edmund added, stopping as Baldrick continued stacking. "Here I am, a graduate from Oxford with a brain the size of a Frenchman's libido, and I'm stuck here surrounded by mindless automatons and _stacking shelves_! I'm wasted here, Balders, I really am!"

"I don't think you're wasted, Mr B."

"Oh? And why is that? Do I look the part?" He asked sardonically, waving a hand at his black trousers, white shirt, black tie and grey apron. "Do I look like the poor, oppressed shop worker who wouldn't know his arse from his elbow even if he had a map?"

"No, but-"

"Or perhaps the poor sod pushing trolleys in the freezing rain," he continued, waving an arm carelessly in the general vicinity of the entrance, "but who doesn't seem to mind because he's eighty years old, can't feel anything below his nose and is still wistfully singing along to Glen Miller's song about a train that will 'Choo Choo' him home?"

"No…"

"Or maybe," he added, really getting into the feel of his rant now, "I'm the hung-over, barely eleven looking cashier who gives the finger to people he doesn't like, and stares psychotically at those he does?"

"None of that, sir, no."

"What, then?"

"You stack the milk really neatly, sir."

"…What?"

Baldrick sat back on his heels and looked at him, causing a passing customer to almost trip over him. "You always seem to know what goes at the front and what goes at the back. I don't have a clue, myself. When you were covering for Percy on Tuesday, I had to ask Fred the Fishmonger for help. And he didn't know either."

"Of course not," Edmund scoffed. "Fred the Fishmonger was once the Deadly Decapitator of London. The only thing he _knows_ is cutting off heads. He probably never stopped at the house of his latest victims to re-organise the fridge!"

"I'm just saying we'd be really lost without you, sir."

"Then you'd better get used to it. I plan on breaking out of this filthy, rat infested prison as soon as possible – it's like Tesco in here! No, I want to work somewhere classy, put my degree to use. A lawyer, maybe…"

"Oh I don't think that's very likely, Blackadder," a snide voice said from behind. Edmund very nearly groaned. Just who he needed. "Any sane employer would run away from you screaming."

Edmund turned around slowly, deliberately looking up gradually before finally making eye contact with Percy Darling. To his delight, he saw the other man squirm slightly before he caught himself and stood stock still once more.

"Ah, Darling, so kind of you to join us with what is, as ever, your highly _dazzling_ and valued input."

Darling twitched at the use of his name. "Don't push me, Blackadder, or I'll-"

"Or you'll what?" he interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Shove a carrot up my nose? I must say, Darling, I'm hurt – I really am. Now…what was it you want to talk to me about?"

"Mr Melchett wants to see us in his office as soon as possible, Blackadder. That is, if you can spare yourself from your earth-shatteringly important duties?"

"Don't patronise me, Darling," he snapped, getting to his feet. "You wear just the same, ridiculous apron as I do. Did he by any chance mention what he wanted to see us for, or did the memory drop out of the empty space where your brain should be on the way over here?"

Darling punched in the code to the employee section of the supermarket slightly harder than strictly necessary and began walking up the stairs at a brisk pace. "You really do fancy yourself, don't you Blackadder? All of those stupid insults you think up – you're not impressing anyone, you know."

"I beg to differ. I know an admiring audience when I see one, as of course you won't, having never had one, and that's exactly what I have in the dining room."

Darling sniffed dismissively, though he didn't sound convinced. "A group of simpletons who don't recognise true character."

Edmund smirked. "Tired of getting left out, Darling? That's strange…I always thought you were well suited to the sulking in the corner routine. One might even say you were born for it."

They reached Melchett's door, Darling clearly itching to strangle Edmund by that point. "Why, you-"

Melchett, as though summoned by Darling's blustering voice, popped his head out of his office door and grinned inanely at them. "Ah! Gentlemen, at last! Come in, come in!" He stood back and threw the door open.

Edmund obediently stepped into the lavish office and stood next to a chair, Darling beside him. As Melchett closed the door, he took the opportunity to look around the office, sneering internally at the shiny frames on every available space on the wall, the expensive table and the ceiling to floor window.

His only consolation was that the view out the window was of the skips at the back of the shop.

"I was beginning to fear you'd gotten lost, you know!"

Melchett walked over to his desk and sat down, folding his hands on top of the table. Edmund and Darling followed suit, though were forced to make do with more uncomfortable, lumpy chairs while their employer sat on what seemed to be the latest luxury from the Seat and Sofa Emporium from across the road.

Edmund smirked. "Never fear, sir. I soon put Darling right."

Melchett smiled and cocked his head slightly to the side as he considered the joke. "_Ehhh_, very good, Blackadder, very good! Though I hardly feel that getting lost in a supermarket is a laughing matter," he added, apparently completely serious. "Why, just this morning I seemed to be seeing the same person everywhere I went – it was like I was walking in circles! Quite perplexing."

Edmund blinked. "I see. Tell me sir…would this be the quadruplets?"

"Quadruplets? What the devil are you talking about, Blackadder?"

"Will, Bill, Phil and, of course, Jill."

Darling looked at him askance. "_Jill_?"

"Yes. That's what Matt now wants us to call him – he felt left out because his name didn't rhyme. And of course, the other small matter that he now dresses, acts, talks and flirts like a woman."

"I see," Darling muttered.

"Yes, you have some very strange people on shop floor, Blackadder. You should get that seen to at once! We can't have them scaring the customers!"

"I can't, sir."

Melchett sat back a bit. "What do you mean, you can't? It's your job, man!"

"_You_ employed them, sir. I don't have the authority." Unfortunately.

"And thank God for that," Darling said maliciously.

"Now that _is_ a shame," Melchett interjected, before Edmund could offer a scathing retort. "Still, can't be helped, can't be helped. Now, the reason I called you both here is because you are both heads of your departments and I need the news spread quickly."

"And what news would this be, sir?" Darling asked politely, already in kissing-up mode, Edmund noted with disgust.

"Simon's Sizeable Supermarket's employee of the month!"

"Oh _God_. Is it time for that unsightly competition again already?"

Darling, who had apparently heard Edmund's mumblings, smirked. "Once every month, Blackadder. You know the rules."

"Yes, thank you, Darling – I never would have deduced that without your input."

Melchett, as oblivious as ever to the argument under his nose, continued. "Now, as you both know, we have had waning interest in this over the past few years. But what you don't know – and what I'm telling you now – is that we've decided to better motivate our workforce."

"It'd take an awful lot of electric shocks, bribes and chocolate on the end of a stick dangling in front of their noses to do that, sir."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Blackadder. The people down at Marketing have done extensive research and discovered that only one thing is needed."

"And what is that, sir?" Darling asked, somehow managing to sound genuinely curious.

"Cash, Darling! And a lot of it! Five hundred pounds, to be precise."

"Five…_hundred_ pounds?" Edmund asked, sure he had misheard.

"Yes!"

"I see. Sir… have I recently expressed my utmost admiration for this competition?"

"Actually, Blackadder, I think just last week you called it a steaming pile of-"

"Genius!" Edmund said loudly, glaring at Darling. "A steaming pile of _genius_, sir."

"So I have your full co-operation?"

"Yes, sir," Darling and Edmund chorused.

"Good. Then that is all…unless you want to discuss the mysterious vandal who still roams the warehouses?"

"No need, sir. I know the blind incompetent and will speak to him again." Baldrick wouldn't know what hit him. Honestly, the amount of times he had to re-train the monkey was just getting ridiculous now.

"Splendid, splendid! Now, back to work, both of you! Time is money, you know, and the big boss Simon wants enough money to burn this year – I hear he's quite unhappy with the singeing he manages to make at the moment."

"Yes," Darling replied, looking as annoyed as Edmund felt. "Quite. Good day, sir."

Edmund followed Darling out of the room, closing the door behind him and experiencing a gradually blossoming, unfamiliar feeling of hope.

"So, finally found your enthusiasm, Blackadder?" Darling demanded as they made their way back downstairs to the shop floor. "I didn't know you had it in you."

"I have quite a lot in me, Darling, that you can only dream about."

Darling twitched, looking faintly embarrassed at Edmund's crude joke. "Yes…well, I think you'll find I'm a force to be reckoned with myself."

"Oh, _please_, I've seen worms with more muscle and menace than you, Darling, and concussed baboons with more intellect. You won't last two seconds with me as your opponent."

"Oh? I'm not so sure about that. May the best man win!"

"Yes," Edmund muttered as he walked back to the fridges and Baldrick. "Me."


	2. Oranges

**2. Oranges.**

Edmund sighed; his head was beginning to feel fuzzy with tiredness despite the multiple and well needed cups of coffee during his breaks throughout the day. Honestly, he wasn't paid enough to do such long shifts. But, of course, there was nothing else in the entire, idiotic, limited job market, and so he was stuck paying off his considerable student debts by working in a _supermarket_, of all things. He'll be eighty at this rate, by the time he paid it off.

He placed the last box of cereal on the shelf with an enormous sense of relief, feeling as though he had just climbed Mount Everest. He glanced at the man squatting next to him. "Right, Balders, that's finally us finished."

He stood up slowly, his muscles painful from long hours of crouching, climbing stairs and pulling trolleys. Well, it gave him a work out at any rate, he thought with a smug smirk as he stretched, ignoring the sound of several popping joints.

"One minute, Mr B. I still have to put out the oranges."

"What?"

Baldrick turned to look up at him, his hand hovering next to the cereal shelf, a box hanging precariously in his grip. "Oranges, sir. You know, the round colourful things that never want to be eaten and everybody knows it – because their armour is so thick."

Edmund rolled his eyes, all sense of earlier relief out the window now that he had to deal with what would probably turn out to be yet another brainless conversation. "I know what oranges are, Baldrick. Though if I hadn't, your description would hardly have done them justice. It was about as accurate as The Sun."

"But you said what."

"…What?"

Baldrick put the cereal box on the floor and Edmund fought the urge to flee – that meant he was getting ready for a long monologue. "When I said," Baldrick said slowly and loudly, as though talking to an idiot, "that I had to put the oranges out, you said what, because you didn't know what."

"No, I _did_ know what, Baldrick. I'm not an idiot, unlike some people in this area. I was simply surprised that you think we still have something to do, when we've gone into overtime already and just ticked the last thing off our list."

"But we do."

"No we _don't_, Baldrick! Now let's just go, before the inhumanly large rats come out and eat us." He started to walk away, but stopped when Baldrick started calling after him.

"But you told me to do it!"

Edmund turned around slowly and (he hoped) ominously. "Baldrick, when I tell you to do something, the long and extremely painful process of explaining it to you means I usually remember telling you in the first place! I didn't tell you to do the oranges today."

"No, you didn't."

"…Tell me, Baldrick, does consistency mean anything at all to you?"

"You told me to do them two weeks ago."

Edmund blinked. "Two weeks ago?" He asked, starting to see where this was going. Damn… all the hard work he'd done to try and get that prize was about to be undone. He glared at Baldrick.

"Yes, sir."

"And you're telling me now," Edmund snapped, stepping closer deliberately slowly, "_two_ weeks later, that you didn't do it when I told you to?"

"I forgot," the man said idiotically, staring up at Edmund, who was now beginning to breach his personal space, fingers flexing in the sudden desire to strangle.

"Of course you did," he snapped, regaining control of himself with a sudden jerk of his conscience. He stepped back several paces, but continued to glare. "You know what this means, don't you Baldrick? We've been selling rotting oranges for at least a week to unsuspecting customers! And you tell me this now, during the competition, as well! You could have cost me five hundred pounds!"

"Not really, sir, because you didn't do it."

"No, but I'm _in charge_ of you, since the Fates seem to absolutely loathe me on principle. And Melchett will want to know why I didn't notice them going off…" he narrowed his eyes as something occurred to him. Surely the customers weren't that stupid? Surely they hadn't bought mouldy looking oranges, even if they were too spineless to come back in and complain about them. Which meant…

"Baldrick?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I distinctly remember the oranges still being orange. If they've been there for weeks, why have they not changed colour?" The fact that some were still there was an obvious thing to explain – this was England, he thought with a scoff. No one ate fruit _here_.

"The paint kept coming off them so I had to put it back on."

Edmund stared at the man before him for several moments, baffled, before the Baldrick-speak dictionary in the back of his mind began to kick in. "Paint? You _painted_ them?"

Baldrick shrugged. "Well…I couldn't leave them, sir, what with the holidays coming up. They'd have looked nasty."

"Yes, yes," he waved his hand impatiently, "skipping the blatant commercialism for a moment…why _paint_, Baldrick? Why not just replace them with the new ones like I asked you to?"

Baldrick looked like he'd been struck by lightning, his mouth hanging open in a little 'o' shape as he shuffled his feet. "Oh. Never thought of that."

"Of course not. The day you think of something vaguely sensible and follow through with it with some competence is the day I turn into a green hippopotamus, sprout antlers, learn to knit and fly next to my pet pig!"

Baldrick's eyes widened and he broke out into a delighted smile. "I didn't know you had a pet pig, sir! Maybe you could bring it round to my house sometime – Peppa would love to have a new friend!"

"My _God_, you really are a stranger to sarcasm, aren't you? You should have at least learnt to recognise bits of it by now, you've known me for long enough. Never mind. Just do the oranges."

"Right away, Mr B."

It was only when Baldrick had reached the end of the aisle, almost knocking his trolley over in the process, that it occurred to Edmund that it was perhaps a bad idea to leave him alone with something so important.

"On second thoughts, I'll come with you. I want the job to be done peroperly for once and you still don't know how to push a trolley without knocking over half the warehouse. Now let's get moving – I want to be home sometime before tomorrow morning. There's a programme on TV later with my name on it."

He followed Baldrick down to the warehouse with a due sense of exhaustion and a niggling voice in the back of his mind telling him that he would definitely, _definitely_ regret it. He sighed, joining Baldrick in the dark and rickety cargo lift. The voice definitely had experience.

A few seconds later, a tuneless humming drifted its way into Edmund's ears, and he winced. "Stop it Baldrick – you sound like a cat being strangled and beaten with a stick simultaneously."

"Aw, come on, Mr B! It's only the Beatles."

"The difference being?"

"They're my favourite band," Baldrick announced proudly. "Me and my family, we've got posters of them all over our house. My mum plays them while she's cooking the dinner every night, and my sister sings it while she walks home, and-"

"Yes, alright, I get the image," he interrupted hastily as the lift clanged to a stop and he, as the taller and stronger of the two, pulled the heavy metal door open. "It's no wonder that pig of yours has no friends, Baldrick, if all anyone can hear when they walk past your house is that ungodly caterwauling."

"But that doesn't usually bother people," Baldrick protested, dragging the empty trolley out of the lift, "because they're the best band in England, you see!"

"No they're not. Just because they prance about in multi-coloured clothes made from a hippy's spare curtains, with their hair so bushy you could lose several badgers in it, all the while shrieking at the top of their voices and trying their best to deafen the nation, does not make them instant international superstars!"

He opened the door to the walk in fridge, bracing himself as always for the blast of cold air that always seemed to make him shiver, no matter how much he anticipated it. "Help me load up this trolley then take an empty one upstairs to bring the rotten ones down in."

"Right away, Mr B."

"And don't play with the strings of sausages like you did last time, Baldrick," he muttered as he followed. "I'm traumatized enough from the last impression you decided to do with them."

oOo

Edmund watched with relief as Baldrick ran towards the stairs, leaving him to take the cargo lift alone. Checking that no one was in it or trying to use it at the top (although they shouldn't be, he thought angrily, since they were the last to leave) he wrenched the door open, wincing at the loud shrieking noise that followed.

They really needed to oil that thing, or at least give everyone ear muffs so they wouldn't be deaf by the time they retired.

He pulled the trolley in after him, taking care not to let any oranges fall off it, and closed the door, taking five minutes to brace himself. As soon as he pushed that button…he'd be going back to Baldrick. But he also wanted to go home. He gritted his teeth. Escape Baldrick or go home?

He pushed the button and leaned moodily against the wall next to it. Honestly, the sacrifices he had to make for this job. He'd have no sanity left by morning, at this rate.

He glanced at his watch. Half eleven. Right. Well… as long as Baldrick had for once been competent (he snorted) they could both load the oranges and be done in less than an hour if they worked as fast as they could.

He hoped the security cameras were catching this. This much overtime had to be worth a lot.

The lift screeched to a halt, irritating its passenger even more, and Edmund reluctantly climbed out. The shop floor was eerie without any customers or shelf stackers roaming around – almost like being in school during the holidays or at night, when no one else was there. There was even that eerie, something-is-watching-you feeling as well, whenever he turned a corner.

The lights were beginning to feel garishly bright – a side effect of too much coffee and a late night at work, perhaps – and he closed his eyes with a wince, coming momentarily to a halt. What he would give to be in a nice, warm, cosy bed right now with his favourite book. Or, even better, working late in an office on the greatest case of his life, if he had to be working late somewhere.

And he would have made a good lawyer, too, if it weren't for the bloody economy. He was good at proving a point, having had to do so on a day to day basis to the various idiots that seemed to constantly surround him. He was clever – he had graduated top of his class from one of the most prestigious universities in the world. And most of all, he was cunning. He could weave a web of deceit so thick it could stop a nuclear bomb.

But did anyone care about that? No, of course not. This was Britain, the let's-spend-all-our-money-then-go-crying-to-America-when-we're-broke country, the worst of them all. It was the only government that was corrupt enough to tax its citizens to the bone in order to pay for essentials, and somehow manage to blow it all on a giant, inflatable shooting range.

Ridiculous.

He muttered some choice swear words under his breath and opened his eyes, just in time to see a large trolley coming hurtling towards him, Baldrick nowhere in sight.

"Baldrick!" he shouted furiously, his voice echoing through the supermarket as he tried to manoeuvre both him and his trolley out of the way. "For heaven's sake, look where you're – OW!"

He yanked his foot out from beneath the crushingly heavy wheel of his own trolley and started hopping about, ignoring for now the resounding crash of falling trolleys in favour of nursing his throbbing toes.

Baldrick, as his trolley had fallen, had been revealed to have been pushing it from behind – something that went against every single regulation and something that Edmund had been struggling for months to get him to stop doing.

"Sorry, Mr B."

Edmund gingerly put his foot back on the floor and gestured angrily at the two trolleys lying on their side on the floor, oranges spilling from them in every direction. "You'll be more than '_sorry_' when I'm finished with you, you brainless cretin! Look what you've done – the oranges are all mixed up!"

"But we'll just pick them up and carry on with what we were doing, sir."

"Yes…slight problem with that plan, Baldrick. We need to pick the _fresh_ oranges, which are now mixed with the rotten ones thanks to the total absence of your brain and timely holiday of your common sense. How many times have I told you, sponge-head, that you're supposed to _pull_ your trolley so you can see where you're going?"

"But we'll just knock on them."

"Knock on what?"

"The oranges, sir."

Edmund stared at him. _Knock on them_? "What?"

"With our hands, sir. We'll knock on them with our hands to see which ones are rotten."

"_Why_?"

Baldrick grinned and tapped his nose. "It's all part of my cunning plan to finish the job, you see-"

"But it _won't work_, Baldrick!"

"Yes it will! Because it's like on TV, when those jungle animals tap the branches with their feet to see which ones are rotten-"

"And it won't work with oranges!" Edmund snapped. "If we put your idiotic plan into action, Baldrick, we'll have mouldy orange pulp smeared all over our fingers faster than Cheety the Cheetah, who's just won a jet pack from Acme and has decided to race a rocket with it!"

Baldrick looked crestfallen and Edmund told himself harshly that he really didn't care. "Oh."

"We're going to have to sort through them by hand. I'd force you to do it alone as punishment, but you wouldn't recognise a rotten orange if by some freak of mutation it somehow managed to bite you on the nose!"

Not waiting for a reply, Edmund knelt on the floor and lifted up the trolleys, beginning to put the rotten oranges in one and the fresh ones in another.

"How _do_ you tell the difference?"

"Oh _God_. How you managed to make it out of primary school is beyond me. Look, just feel it, and if it's got more jelly inside it than Santa's belly, it's rotten. Or, if even that is beyond you, check to see if any paint comes off by running it under a tap."

"Right away, Mr B."

Edmund began testing oranges as quickly as he could, muttering under his breath as he managed to find some of the most disgusting ones in the pile. Something on his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he lay flat on his stomach – since Baldrick was busy – to reach under a shelf, where one had rolled. Straightening up again, he brushed off his clothes before walking back over to the trolleys.

And stopped dead in his tracks, staring at Baldrick in confusion.

"What are you doing?"

"Seeing if the paint comes off."

Edmund continued to stare at Baldrick, who remained oblivious as usual. "By putting it under your nose?"

Baldrick finally turned around then, and if ever there was a gorm, it had to be said that in that moment Edmund thought Baldrick looked like the person the most sadly lacking in gorm that he had ever seen in his entire life.

"You said I needed a tap."

"Baldrick," he said with a now familiar sense of exhaustion, putting his hands on his hips, "correct me if I'm mistaken, but I was under the impression that you were a man – though that is in itself debatable – and not a bathroom fixture. Are you now telling me that your incompetency has reached such unbelievable levels as to trick you into thinking your own nose is a tap?"

"No, but it runs like one," Baldrick replied, putting the orange back under his nose.

"Oh _God_… just when I thought you couldn't get any more imbecilic. Congratulations Baldrick, you've surprised me yet again."

"Thank you, sir!"

"That's not a good thing," he muttered, annoyed, as he went back to gathering and sorting the oranges.

The minutes crawled by like, in Edmund's opinion, a particularly slow sloth suffering from a bad hangover. In fact, he thought the sloth might have been beating it. With every orange Edmund managed to sort, Baldrick managed to undo their work through whatever imbecilic accident he had just managed to cause. And Baldrick's singing was simply indescribable.

Whatever happened to good, tasteful lyrics and music that didn't make you think your ears were bleeding? He missed the good old days of music when he was a teenager – this Beatles rubbish was just too loud and clunky for his liking.

And, as usual, he seemed to be in a minority when it came to sanity.

"You say Hello, and I say Goodbye!" Baldrick warbled a good two hours later. Edmund winced. "Goodbye, Goodbye!"

"Baldrick," he snapped, beginning to get a headache, "I'm no Beatles expert or, indeed, fan…but I seem to remember that it is "you say goodbye and I say hello"."

"But that doesn't fit the tune!"

"Yes it does – look, oh, forget it. I'm not going to sing a song I loathe more than Darling to an ape who has no sense of music taste and who is tone deaf."

"That's a shame, sir," Baldrick said with apparent sincerity, putting the last orange onto the stand, "because I never hear you sing."

"And a good thing, too. The day I start to sing will be the day that man finally gets to the moon."

"So you don't think it's possible, then?"

"Not if the Americans are trying to do it, it isn't," Edmund drawled as they turned around and began to walk back to the storeroom. "Those idiots wouldn't know their arse from their elbow if they were both labelled, drawn on a map, and pointed out by someone else. And speaking of stupidity," he added, "here."

He slapped Baldrick around the head once they were out of sight of the security cameras.

"Ow! What have I done now?"

"Everything, Baldrick, everything! For starters," he ranted, slamming the lift door shut with unnecessary force, "you've kept me here until two in the bloody morning, failed to do something I asked you to do two weeks ago and made me help clean up the mess, and run over my foot. Five times!"

"Oh, that."

"Yes, _that_, you brainless cretin!" He pulled open the door to the lift and pulled the cart out after him. "I should do the entire world a favour and lock you down here! At least you wouldn't starve – that is, if you finally learn what is edible and what isn't around here."

"You can't do that, sir!"

"And why not?"

"Because then I'd be an old hermit gone mad from isolation!"

"Suits me," Edmund snapped. "Now get out of my way. I've suffered through your presence long enough – I think I deserve either a drink or a shotgun, both of which are readily available at home, which is where I'm going."

"Hold the door, sir-"

"No, Baldrick, you're going up the stairs," Edmund said, and closed the door in Baldrick's face. Pressing the button for shop floor, he slumped against the wall, rubbed his hand over his face, and groaned.

They had bloody well better sort out the job market soon, or he couldn't be held accountable for his actions.


	3. Uniforms

**Author's Note:**Firstly, I would like to apologise for the delay in putting this chapter online. I've had deadlines to work towards, but they're all done now! Also, the sequel to Strange New World is still underway, so there will be that to look forward to! Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

**3. Uniforms.**

"Ah, Blackadder, glad you could make it," Melchett said jovially, waving a hand for Edmund to enter the office.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, yes, now, I've already told Darling this because I happened to meet him in the cafeteria earlier," Melchett explained, folding his hands on the table and staring straight at Edmund, "but as you're finally on your break now, I thought I'd clue you in as well."

"Has there been a new development in the Employee of the Month competition, sir?"

"You know perfectly well that I can't tell you the results until the end, Blackadder. No, this is something much more serious. How much do you know about fashion?"

Edmund blinked. He must be more tired than he thought, after that disastrous shift last night – or should he say this morning – sorting out oranges with Baldrick. "Fashion, sir?"

Melchett nodded enthusiastically. "Are you a fashion savvy sort of chap, Blackadder, or are you one of those people who just puts anything on in the morning, regardless of whether it burns out everyone's retinas?"

"I don't pay much attention to the current trend, sir," he replied honestly and with no attempt to hide the contempt from his voice. "The current fashion is about as appealing as a monkey in a fluorescent tutu."

"Now that is a shame," his employer said, standing up and beginning to walk around the room. Edmund craned his neck to keep him in view, knowing that the older man considered eye contact to be polite and that he might very well be sacked if he failed to do so, knowing the man's temperamental nature. "I was hoping for something a bit more helpful – Darling said much the same thing, actually."

"If I may ask, sir, what is this sudden interest in fashion for?"

Melchett turned to face him, hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Simon has decided that our uniform is rather out of date."

Edmund blinked. _Oh dear Lord…_

"He asked me to check if anyone has any strong opinions about fashion."

"So that they could help him design it?" Edmund asked hopefully. He might still be able to salvage the situation, if only he could manipulate Melchett into taking his advice…

"Good heavens, no!" Melchett exclaimed, chuckling for a moment before moving to regain his seat and reclining in it comfortably. "If everyone helped him to design it we'd all look like clowns!"

"So why did he want to know if anyone was interested in fashion, then, sir?"

"To fire them, of course! We don't want a massive protest about something so unimportant now, do we, Blackadder? And I must admit, my job is getting a little boring, now, since I haven't fired anyone recently."

Well, nice to know he had a choice in the matter. "Quite understandable, sir."

"Not that you'd be playing any part in something so ridiculous, eh, Blackadder? I can't imagine you're the protesting sort!"

"Well quite, sir," he forced himself to say, wondering if the man had any grip on reality whatsoever. "Anything the big boss Simon picks for me…I'll gladly wear."

"Jolly good, jolly good. You'll keep an eye out for any signs of discontent, won't you, Blackadder?"

"Of course, sir. And…may I ask, what is the new uniform going to be?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Melchett said regretfully. "Simon does like his surprises – but I have it on pretty good authority that it's very modern indeed; lots of good colours and flares, that type of thing."

Edmund tried very hard not to wince. "I…see, sir."

"Well, now that we've established you have no problem with the plan, Blackadder, I'll let you get back to your break."

Edmund stood up, forcing himself to smile. "All forty five seconds of it, sir."

"Eh, all eager to go back to work, I see. A very good attitude to have, Blackadder! Now, I must get on with those reports…where did I put that file…"

Edmund rolled his eyes while Melchett started hunting through his desk drawers, and turned to walk out, closing the door on the mutterings in the office. Not even lunchtime and he was already regretting coming into work.

A new uniform? The one they had was good enough, and nice and sensible, too. None of that rainbow coloured, high-waist, so flared you trip over if you walk one step rubbish, that was for sure.

He glanced at his watch. Yup. His break was now up. Rolling his eyes, he opened his locker and took out his apron, putting it on reluctantly. What he would give to just not go down there, for once. To not be plagued by Baldrick's idiotic conversation or helping the idiot out of ridiculous predicaments.

He walked down to shop floor and started searching high and low for Baldrick. With any luck, the job would now be half finished and they could move on to the next thing. And, he thought with a dim flicker of hope, if they managed to go through the rest of the day without any hiccups, he would have a good chance of winning the competition and getting a slightly longer break in to the bargain.

Well, he could dream.

When he found Baldrick, he found a trolley full of jam jars and a slightly trapped looking customer, who seemed to have asked Baldrick something and been dragged into conversation against his will. Edmund noted with some glee that it was a plump man dressed in a posh business suit, and decided not to interfere. This was one of the upsides that Baldrick's idiocy provided, and he enjoyed it immensely when it wasn't directed at him.

"…which was funny," Baldrick droned as Edmund knelt down and began stacking jam, smirking inwardly, "because we never even knew it was there. Well…'till it went off, that is, and then it began to stink out the entire house…"

"Yes, yes, fascinating," the business man blustered, "but I really only wondered if you knew where to find the greeting cards. I'm in a bit of a hurry, you see."

"Oh," Baldrick replied. "And…what sort of cards would those be, sir?"

There was a slight pause. Edmund was smirking openly now as he pictured the businessman's face.

"Christmas ones."

"Oh! Funny you should want them, sir, because it _is_ Christmas soon – isn't it, Mr B?"

"Oh yes," Edmund replied, not halting in his job. "Soon, the whole nation will consume an entire year's supply of food in five minutes and flock to the hospitals in record numbers asking to be de-stuffed. Honestly, we'd save so much time if we just rammed stuffing down our relatives' throats rather than wasting effort on the turkey…"

"Yes…interesting view, but where are the cards? You never actually told me!"

"Didn't I?" Baldrick asked. "I thought I did – right between the wrapping paper and the confetti?"

"No, you didn't. And where is that?"

Edmund turned around and looked the businessman in the eye. "Well, it's strange, actually, how there's a sign right above the aisle saying "festive goods" in lettering so bright you could see it from the moon. How you managed to miss that is beyond me."

The man puffed up instantly, threatening to make the buttons on his suit pop. "Well I never heard such insolence in my life!"

"Then you've been very lucky, if you've gone through your entire life being that moronic."

The man sputtered. "I want to talk to your manager."

Edmund stood up immediately and moved to stand in front of the man as he began to walk away. "Ah, no sir, that wouldn't be a very good idea, you see, the boss is very busy at the moment."

"Not too busy to hear how his supermarket is in a shambles, surely!"

He forced a smile onto his face and put his arm around the man's shoulders, walking him towards the Christmas cards at a slow and leisurely pace. "But surely, you don't want him to think that his seasonal joke fell flat, do you?"

"Seasonal joke?" the businessman demanded, glancing askance at Edmund. "What joke? All I saw was impertinence – I'll get you sacked for that!"

Edmund laughed. "No, sir. You see, Mr Melchett – that's the boss – has asked everyone to be rude to customers at random – it's his eccentric sense of humour, you see."

"I'm afraid I don't understand it."

No…unsurprising, really, since he was just making this up. "It's a little hard to explain, sir. It's his idea of a…" _come on, think_, "April Fool's Day prank. Being rude and then revealing it was just a joke!" Inwardly, he was banging his head against the wall. April Fool? He'd be lucky if the man fell for it.

"But April Fool's Day was in April!"

"Yes, but Mr Melchett is such a big fan," he said slowly, struggling to sound as believable as he could, "that he has decided to hold it all year round. Of course," he added quickly, seeing that the man was about to argue, "I've tried to talk him out of it – it's a silly idea, really – but you mustn't tell him that I said so. It's best to let him think that the customers take it in their stride. He's getting very old, you see, and isn't quite all there. It'd upset him if he thought his little joke was failing."

They had reached the Christmas cards, now, and Edmund drew to a halt, letting go of the man's shoulder and stepping away, inwardly praying that the man would buy the lie.

He watched anxiously as the stranger's face played out some inner argument before he finally nodded, slightly grudgingly. "I won't deny an old man his fun," he said finally. "But it sounds a bit like a load of old rubbish to me."

"I assure you, sir, it isn't. That's just his eccentric ways. Everything will be back to normal when – er, _if_ – the new management eventually takes over."

"Yes…quite. Well, I hope he doesn't become too much more eccentric," the man said, clearly beginning to believe Edmund. "I had a relative like that. Very sad."

"Yes…it is tragic to watch," Edmund said softly, nodding, before gesturing with his hand at the shelf next to them. _Chump_. "And we have reached our destination, I believe. Was there anything else?"

"No, no…I'll just look through them." He walked forward and inspected the choices of cards laid out before him. "Good Lord, there aren't many left, are there?"

Edmund, who had been just about to escape back to the jam jars, reluctantly stayed put. So much for looking through alone. "That is the Christmas rush, sir. Precisely why you shouldn't leave it until the last minute."

The man glanced sharply at him.

Edmund widened his eyes. "Oh…pardon me, sir. Force of habit, you know, to carry out the April Fool's Day act now."

"Of course. Well, thank you."

Edmund inclined his head regally. "It was no problem. Merry Christmas, sir." The man had already dismissed him, rummaging now through the paltry offering left after the Christmas rush. "You pompous old git."

He never stayed to see if the man reacted or not, instead turning around sharply and heading back to Baldrick. That was a close one. Thankfully, the majority of the general public were stupid enough to fall for even his most see through lies. That, or he was extraordinarily lucky. But he would have to be careful from now on, if he wanted to win that money; not everyone will believe that cover story.

"Was Mr Melchett angry, Mr B?"

"No, Baldrick, because that idiot never got upstairs. Luckily, I managed to divert him." He knelt down and resumed stacking shelves. "Do you know, Balders, for once I'm thoroughly grateful to be surrounded by complete morons."

"But…that's not what you normally say, Mr B."

Edmund glared at Baldrick. "Don't ruin my good mood. It's the first one I've had in weeks and I'm going to savour it."

Silence blessedly fell and Edmund turned back to his job, already scheming about ways to sabotage Darling's attempts to win the Employee of the Month competition. He didn't have the patience to go about this with just hard work and anyway, Baldrick kept ruining his efforts. No…if he was going to win this money, he would have to fight dirty.

He smirked. Darling wouldn't know what hit him.


End file.
